Relenting
by mattz0r
Summary: Harry is struggling to cope, and his friends are worried. He finally relents, and accepts their help.


_Author's note: I had this little idea, and though I might finally write some Harry Potter fanfiction, since I've been reading it for years now... I realise I chose a bad time to start, what with THE END, and all, but oh well. Idea was butchered in the end, really, and it's ridiculously short. Still, if you wouldn't mind, when/if you read/review – judge me on my writing style and skills, not my poorly thought-out plot and abrupt end. I just want to know whether if I put the time in (more than 30 minutes :D) I could be a decent writer. _

_**Disclaimer:** This story is based on character's and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, no profit is being garnered and no copyright infringement intended._

**Relenting**

_Voldemort had raised his wand. His head was still tilted to on side, like a curious child, wondering what would happen if he proceeded. Harry looked back into the red eyes, and wanted it to happen now, quickly, while he could still stand, before he lost control, before he betrayed fear –_

_He saw the mouth move and a flash of green light, and everything was gone._

Harry lay awake in bed. For weeks now he had been having difficulty sleeping; dark circles had formed around his eyes, and he looked haggard and weary. Even his closest friends could not wholly recognise him. Harry saw his wand and began to retch, and soon descended into another cold, biting, unrelenting flashback.

_The bang was like a cannon-blast and the golden flames that erupted between them, at the dead centre of the circle they had been treading, marked the point at which their spells collided. Harry saw Voldemort's green jet meet his own spell, saw the Elder wand fly high, dark against the sunrise, spinning across the enchanted ceiling like the head of Nagini, spinning through the air towards the master it would not kill, who had come to take full possession of it at last._

"Harry! Harry!" called Ron, banging hard on Harry's bedroom door, "Get your arse out of bed and into the bathroom – I want to play Quidditch at least _once_ this summer!"

"G'way, Ron, I don't feel like it today."

"Come on, we were going to going to have a big impromptu match, our whole year group!"

"I said NO, Ron!" yelled Harry, suddenly irritable, "Just leave me the hell alone, okay?"

Outside the door, Ron sighed; Harry had been acting very strangely recently. He wasn't getting any sleep (which was obvious from his appearance), and Ron had sneaking suspicions that Harry was hitting the Firewhiskey – hard. He sighed again, and strode off in search of Hermione.

"Come _on_, Hermione! If it's obvious to me, you can bet your bottom dollar it's obvious to you! Harry's in a real state right now, and he _needs_ our help!"

"This is not something you can just _force,_ Ronald! He has to have time to deal with it himself!"

"Oh yeah, and he's dealing with it real great, isn't he? He doesn't sleep, he doesn't show any interest in anything, he avoids everyone and everything, and he's chucking back drink like it's going out of fashion! Can't you see we need to do something?" pleaded Ron. He had suggested to Hermione that they get Harry to see a psychiatrist, and, needless to say, she had not taken to the idea.

"I _know_, Ron! He's my friend too, and I'm as worried about him as you are!" cried Hermione, "But we can't just stroll upstairs and say 'Oh, Harry, you're obviously traumatised, so we're carting you off to the nuthouse to see a shrink', can we? He's not exactly going to appreciate that, is he?"

"Then what the hell are we supposed to do?" said Ron, balling his fists in frustration, and blowing out a hard breath.

"You could start by not talking about me behind my back. Just an idea." said a cold voice from the stairs. Hermione and Ron spun round.

"Listen, Harry, we need to talk to you –" started Hermione.

"Oh, save it. Harry's taking a bloody _war_ a little hard – he must be a nutter, and an alchy! Just let me deal with it, all right?"

He stomped up the stairs, his door slamming a few moments later. Ron and Hermione winced.

"This isn't the end of it, you know, Hermione." said Ron defiantly.

"Oh, I know."

"This had better be damn good, Hermione." growled Harry.

"Look, I know you've had an awful time of it," started Hermione, "and I know that none of us can understand what you've been through, but we _did_ all fight in that war, you know. We _did_ all have to live in Voldemort's police state."

Harry was silent.

"I know you don't want to hear this, but I've been researching it and I think you have post-traumatic stress disorder… it's very serious, and I want you to at least consider going to see a psychiatrist. For yourself, and for us – the people that love you."

"Okay," said Harry. Hermione blew out a sigh of relief, "but I don't know what you're expecting. The shrink'll probably tell me I'm depressed and give me some pills – it's all a load of codswallop, psychiatry."

"Thank you, Harry."

_A/N: ...embarrassing, huh?_


End file.
